Long Hard Road Out Of Hell
by crammit
Summary: Santana was free and clear of the final obligation of her contract. Her life was finally her own for the first time in years. When a mysterious package arrives on her doorstep, the intrigue proves too much for her to resist. Will this new path lead her past the point of no return or will she finally find redemption in a love she never saw coming? – Rated M for sex/language/violence


**Title:** Long Hard Road Out Of Hell  
><strong>Author:<strong> crammit  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> Glee  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Santana/Brittany  
><strong>Timeline:<strong> AU - Merc 'Verse  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Santana was free and clear of the final obligation of her contract. Her life was finally her own for the first time in years. When a mysterious package arrives on her doorstep, the intrigue proves too much for her to resist. Will this new path lead her past the point of no return or will she finally find redemption in a love she never saw coming? – Rated M for sex, language, illegal activities, and violence

**A/N:** Glee and its characters do not belong to me and I mean them no harm. I promise to put them back right where I found them once I'm done with the story. All original characters are mine, for better or worse.

**A/N:** Disclaimer: I am not a mercenary (or a weapons expert). I am also not a hacker or a computer whiz. I am doing cursory research into certain things with the story so they will hopefully add a splash of story-time authenticity to what I'm writing. However, I am freely admitting now that many, many liberties are going to be taken with the hows and whys of certain things in this story. If you are a mercenary, weapons expert, or a hacker and I offend you at any point of my story because it turns it into "DON'T TURN YOUR BACK ON THE KILLER ON THE FLOOR THAT APPEARS TO BE DEAD! ARE YOU STUPID?" please accept my humble apologies. Also, please don't kill me or hack my computer. I will take storyline suggestions about either, however.

**A/N:** The title was taken from the song "Long Hard Road Out of Hell" by Marilyn Manson and the Sneaker Pimps from The Spawn Soundtrack. (One of my favorite soundtracks, by the way)

**A/N:** This is the prologue to the story that will take place in my Mercenary 'Verse.

**A/N:** Thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated. :-)

* * *

><p><strong><em>PROLOGUE<em>**

The gun feels heavy in her pocket. It always does. Her steps are easy, however. Her lean body moves effortlessly through the evening crowd, snippets of Spanish and heavily accented English ebbing and flowing as she makes her way past an open market, hands tucked deep into her well-worn leather jacket. Stopping briefly to let a lumbering cab pass by, she crosses the street at a light run, her eyes scanning, always scanning until they land on what she needs. Stepping near the back of a wooden cart overflowing with colorful hand-woven scarves, she turns her back slightly, experienced hands transferring the suppressor from one pocket to the other one. She reaches out with her right hand, running her fingertips across the soft fabric draped over the edge of the cart, the old woman paying her no mind as two young tourists test their juvenile bargaining skills with broken Spanish. Tugging the length of the fabric free, she pretends to drop the scarf, kneeling and dropping the suppressor down the storm drain under the cart and standing quickly with a whispered apology. As the woman distractedly waves her off, she tucks the scarf against the side of the cart, continuing down the street for another block or two. The jacket feels lighter. Santana, however, does not.

Turning down an alleyway, she easily picks out a local restaurant's dumpster, having watched it for the past week and knows that like clockwork, the garbage truck will be by at 7am tomorrow to collect the waste. As she approaches the dumpster, she pulls the P226 from her pocket, ejecting the clip and letting it scrape down the inside of the overflowing dumpster, never breaking stride as she continues to the end of the alleyway, her gun tucked securely inside her pocket once more. Turning the corner, the cooler evening breeze brushes through her hair, lifting it from her shoulders, adding to the lightness Santana is starting to feel.

Looking up, she recognizes the street signs and knows she's only a few more blocks from her destination. Stopping at the corner, she scans her surroundings once more, her reluctance to part with this particular weapon making her miss the first signal change. As the crowd shuffles past her, her hand tightens inside her pocket, stepping to the side to allow the people to pass. Santana's thumb caresses the warm grip and her resolve falters for a moment. This is her last job, the final contract before she fulfills her obligation and there's a part of her that wants to hold onto this particular weapon, a grim reminder of what it took to get here. But somewhere along the way she picked up the superstition that it was bad luck to use your weapon more than four times. In her line of work, it meant she was budgeting for them on the regular but it also meant she hadn't broken that superstition and as she crosses the street, another storm drain capturing her attention, she releases the brief flash of nostalgia on a soft sigh. She's safe, for now, and it's that thought that allows her to easily bend down under the pretense of tying her shoes, efficiently transferring the gun from her pocket through the open slat in the drain. The satisfying splash as it lands at the bottom lingers in her ears as she crosses the street, cutting through a few more back alleys until she's emerges a block away from her hotel.

Santana removes her leather jacket, hooking two fingers in the collar and letting it dangle as she drapes it over her shoulder, her pace relaxed as she approaches the doorman. Greeting him in Spanish, her body and voice are calm as she assures him that his suggestion on where to find the best manchamanteles was just perfect, patting her belly and smiling at him as she walks through the open door. The brightness of the lobby suddenly makes her feel exposed, the garish lighting reflecting off the bright reds and blues of the décor seeming to focus its attention on her as she walks across the tiled floor. Dropping her hand from her shoulder, Santana grips her jacket in a fist at her side, sweeping her gaze across the room as she heads to the elevator banks, threats assessed and dismissed in seconds. As she steps past a large pillar, the shadow cast by the structure almost feels like a relief, her breath calming as she watches the numbers above the elevator descend. With a muted ding, the car reaches the lobby, the gold doors opening and disgorging one half of a wedding party, her presence barely noticed as she skirts around the raucous group. After deftly avoiding a very drunk straggler, Santana slides into the elevator right before the doors close, catching a glimpse of the revelers as they spill laughter and happy shouts into the lobby.

Avoiding her appearance in the reflective inner doors, Santana pushes the number 5, riding the elevator in silence to her floor. Fishing her hotel key out of her back pocket as the doors open, Santana walks the few feet down the carpeted hallway to her hotel room, sliding the key home and pushing the handle down as the light clicks green. Leaving the lights off, she drops her jacket and key onto the king bed and moves quietly over to the window, the blinds still half parted from earlier in the day. Looking down, Santana watches as the wedding guests make their way out of the hotel, turning left and heading in staggered rows down the street to continue their celebration at one of the many bars lining the avenue just a few blocks over. Santana rests her forehead against the cool glass, closing her eyes and finally letting the tension of the past few hours escape with each deliberate breath. Her stomach feels empty but food is the furthest thing from her mind and with one last sigh, Santana pushes away from the window, closing the blinds and turning the desk lamp on. Heading towards the bathroom, she strips along the way, letting her clothes fall in her wake as she makes her way to the standing shower. Stopping at the last minute to turn the television on, Santana allows herself the small comfort of having the low murmur of a game show on in the background, hoping that the hot water and artificial company will chase away the sudden feeling of loneliness.

* * *

><p>Wrapping a towel around her body, Santana reaches for another towel to dry her hair, pausing to look at her hands in the bright bathroom light. A line of scratches mars the smooth flesh of her knuckles like plough lines, curling around the base of her thumb before stopping where she knows her jacket sleeve ends. Flexing her fingers, she winces as the water-softened skin stretches and pulls but nods in satisfaction when no blood appears. It was sheer muscle that allowed Santana to power herself over the brick wall, overgrown thorn bushes an obstacle left off the dossier packet she was given by her employer. Knowing the alternative of not clearing that hurdle was worse, Santana accepts the wounds in stride, towel drying her hair as she walks over and powers up the laptop on the nightstand. Reaching for the remote, she turns the television off, sitting on the edge of the bed, going through the motions of logging in securely with practiced ease. A few more clicks and commands and her simple two word email is encrypted and sent off, flying through cyberspace like a shadow to land at an IP address that will no doubt change seconds after the message has been read.<p>

_It's done._

Three months of work and the ending of a life boiled down into two words. The fact that this life needed to be ended doesn't detract from the sour taste Santana gets in her mouth during the conclusion of these exchanges. Standing up, she walks into the bathroom, draping both damp towels on the towel rack, turning her head as an alert from her laptop lets her know a reply has been sent. Spending a few moments to brush her teeth, Santana averts her eyes from the mirror, leaning down to rinse her mouth with water before resting her toothbrush in one of the drinking glasses. As Santana turns the light off, she reaches up and combs her fingers through her dark wavy hair, feeling a familiar fatigue in her muscles as she pads naked to the bed. Sitting on the edge once more, she opens the reply, her eyes scanning the four words over and over, her mind unable to process that this might finally be it.

_Money transferred. You're clear._

The lightness she felt before comes rushing back. _You're clear._ Two little words and more meaning than those ten letters could ever convey with their simple phrasing. Her heart jumps once at the implications of her newfound freedom but experience has taught her to take every perceived piece of good fortune with at least a few grains of salt. These next few weeks will truly be the test of her freedom and until she clears that unknown variable, in theory nothing has changed. Running a hand over her face, Santana brushes her hair over her shoulder, leaning down to delete and scrub the exchange. Securely shutting down her laptop, she climbs into bed, sleep coming easily after years of training her body.

* * *

><p>Pulling her black t-shirt down, Santana reaches over onto the bed, habit having her brush her fingers over the gun tucked securely on the side before zipping her small duffel bag closed. Turning, she picks up her coffee mug and takes a large sip, half an ear to the low hum of the local news on the TV screen as she looks down at her room service tray, contemplating indulging in another piece of toast. A familiar name filters through the Spanish on her screen and she turns her head to watch the news piece, the toast forgotten as she puts her coffee mug down, taking the hair tie off of her wrist and pulling her hair up into a high ponytail. The body shouldn't have been discovered for another couple of hours and Santana realizes that her time table for leaving has just been accelerated. Scanning the room to make sure all her belongings have been collected and put into the duffel bag, Santana goes to grab her leather jacket hanging over the back of the desk chair. A firm knock at the door has her diverting her attention, reaching inside of her bag for her gun. Holding the gun at her side, Santana steps gingerly towards the door, keeping her body turned, her voice casual as she calls out. "Yes?"<p>

No answer greets her inquiry but she hears the scratch and shuffle of something being placed against her door, footsteps calmly retreating down the hallway. Waiting, she hears the low ding of the elevators and then silence, the television nothing but white noise to her now. Holding her arm behind her back, Santana peers through the peephole, the fisheye revealing only the empty corridor of the hallway. Unlocking the door, she pulls it open, looking down as a padded manila envelope slides onto the floor at her feet. Her heartbeat trips a little as she bends down to pick it up, scanning the hallway one more time before stepping back, locking the door as it closes. As the news cycle starts again, Santana presses the power button and turns the television off, the local traffic outside the window the only sound in the quiet hotel room.

A big part of her wants to leave the envelope unopened. She'd finished her contract and could just leave, be free of this city and her sin. A robust bank account and a safety deposit box with at least a dozen false identities ensured that she could relocate anywhere and reinvent herself into anything. Looking down, a gun in one hand and the envelope in the other, Santana realizes the panic she's starting to feel isn't coming from what this envelope might hold but what _not _opening the envelope might mean. Who was she if she wasn't the woman who was expected to open and respond to whatever was contained inside this envelope? This life, for better or worse, was all she'd known for the past 10 years and as she places the gun down on the desk, wiping a slightly sweaty palm against her jeans, Santana feels a calmness run through her. This is the first time in a really long time that opening an envelope like this is being done of her own free will and she has to admit there is a little thrill in that, in being able to make her own decision for a change.

Dropping back to sit on the mattress, she taps the envelope against her leg a few times, finally rolling her eyes at herself and sliding her finger under the edge to break the seal, muttering to herself as the envelope shreds from the pressure. "This could be the fucking hotel bill for all I know…"

As she dumps the contents of the envelope onto the bed, it becomes very apparent that this is not the hotel bill. A burner phone drops onto the mattress followed by a tri-folded letter. Laying the padded envelope down, Santana picks up the piece of paper, unfolding it and reading the words slowly.

_Ms. Lopez,_

_I was given your name by a mutual acquaintance who asked only to be identified as "Oberst". I was told that name would mean something to you and lead you to trust the validity of my request. I have a need for a woman of your talents. While the job you have most recently completed for our acquaintance was superbly executed, I am well aware of your situation. The skills I need from you will not require the actions that were taken last night. It is your other particular skill set that I am looking to purchase. Located in the phone enclosed in this package are a single number and a single saved text. The text contains the address for our meeting and the number is the one you will call when you arrive, should you decide to accept my offer. You have five days to accept this offer. After such time, the phone will no longer be active and this contract request is null and void. While I understand if you reject this offer, I sincerely hope you will at least consider meeting with me and reserve making a decision until we have spoken in person. As always, your discretion in this matter is appreciated._

_- R_

Turning the letter over, Santana looks for more but is greeted with empty space. Rereading the letter once more, she reaches for the phone and finds the address, quickly calculating the time and distance between her current location and New York City. Putting the phone back into the envelope, she stands and grabs her gun from the desk, placing both items into her duffel bag and zipping it closed once more. Recognizing that her decision has already been made, there is no hesitation as she dons her leather jacket and pockets the letter, slinging her bag over her shoulder and swiping the hotel key card from the top of the dresser. With one final look around the room, Santana lets the door close and lock behind her, the symbolism of leaving the life behind that brought her to this hotel room in the first place not lost on her as she heads to the lobby to pay her bill.

* * *

><p>Pulling her keys from the side pocket of her jacket, Santana jiggles them in her hand as she heads around the corner to the parking garage, taking the stairs two at a time until she reaches her level. Spotting her Superlow 1200T in the same spot and condition as she left it, helmet locked into place, she's glad she forked over the extra money to have the parking attendants keep an eye on it for her. It always helps to do your research ahead of time and extra money to two kids trying to make enough money to study abroad was a good investment for the time she was here. Taking a quick trip around the bike to make sure everything really was in the same condition, Santana nods once, satisfied with its condition. Tucking her duffel bag into one of the saddle bags, Santana grabs her helmet and settles herself on the seat, planting her boots firmly on the ground as she adjusts her ponytail, sliding her black helmet on a few seconds later. Turning the key in the ignition, the comforting rumble of the engine gives Santana a sense of coming home, her muscle memory on automatic as she goes through her usual checklist before taking off. Pulling the zipper of her leather jacket up to her neck, Santana thinks about the letter resting in the inside pocket, curiosity causing a tiny smile to curve the corner of her mouth. Flipping the black visor down, Santana pulls out of the parking space and heads down the ramp, reaching into her back pocket to hand her ticket to the parking attendant. Slipping him another $50, she nods her head at his exuberant proclamation that she's welcome back there any time. Easing her way onto the main street, Santana blends in with the traffic, calmly coasting out of the city limits as two police cars race past her in the opposite direction. With one final glance in her rearview mirror, Santana takes the on-ramp, accelerating toward a destination with no known outcome. That may have given her cause for concern in the past but with her future held in her own hands, Santana keeps her eyes on the horizon, a full smile secreted away behind the darkness of her helmet.<p> 


End file.
